


Everything Not Saved Will Be Lost

by hisen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bad Weather, Character Death, Cold War, Colonialism, Conquest, Cuban Missile Crisis, Dark Ages, Elephants, End of the World, Historical Hetalia, London, M/M, Mentioned Russia (Hetalia), Modern Era, Nuclear Weapons, Paris - Freeform, Puritan America (Hetalia), Regency, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Restoration Era, Storms, The Apocalypse, The Black Death, The Lake District, The Year of No Summer, War, arguing with loved ones, big old asteroid, last minute love confessions, medieval era, two perfectly good cups of tea are ruined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 23:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisen/pseuds/hisen
Summary: Five times England thought the world was ending, and the one time it did.





	1. 869

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request I picked up years ago from the kink meme (five times Arthur thought the world was ending, and the one time it did, with a US/UK slant), but never finished. I finally finished it this very month! The prompter probably lost interest years ago, I can't find the request now, and the prompter also requested human names, which I haven't used, so I'm reluctant to call it a proper fill. Anyway, hopefully someone will enjoy it out there. I enjoyed writing (and researching!) it despite the grim subject matter.  
> There are some background historical notes at the end of each chapter, but these are only for interest and can be ignored.
> 
> Warning: this has religious themes, death, colonialism, apocalyptic themes throughout and a kill them all ending. Also some current political issues are referenced in the last chapter, but only very briefly. The shift in England's view from "my colony" to "independent nation" happens off-screen, if that makes you uncomfortable. 
> 
> Title from Foals' new album (part 1), which is very apocalyptic and inspired me to pick this up again.

1\. 869

He is hiding up in the trees, holding onto the branches and hoping he is not seen. He has been running from the invaders since they arrived on the marshlands of East Angles. This time the Danes are serious. This is not a quick raid, it is a conquest. He is frightened but he tries to steady his hands, checks that his bow is ready for a struggle, pulls the hood of his cape lower to try to blend into the green of the leaves.

He hears footsteps in the forest below him and freezes. He hears the language of the invaders below him, there is laughter but then there is shouting. He moves his head to look down, he sees among the grown men there is a younger man, older than him but not yet an adult. He is trying to stop the argument that has broken out between two men, and despite his young age they listen to him. There's that same strange tightness in his chest as he looks at him that he did when he first saw Rome. This young man must be another country like he is. 

The argument is resolved and the group leaves, apart from the young man. His face, which was so animated when talking to his companions, draws serious as he scans the forest. He is looking for something, and he tries to silently move higher up the tree. As he does he feels something drop out of his cape and fall down onto the ground. The noise is amplified by the silence of the forest and the young man spins around to check the falling item immediately.

His amulet! He feels tears well up in his eyes as he climbs up the branches, trying not to look down from the ground. He has managed to keep that amulet despite the pressures the kings have put on him to convert when they find him, to forget the old ways and follow a man brought back from the dead. The strange shell like rock he found by the river has been with him for years and has always protected him. He needs that protection now more than he ever has before.

The boy picks up the amulet and looks up. He grins and starts to climb up the tree, sword banging against his back in the scabbard, the noise alerting him that someone is coming. He tries to get away but the other country is faster and grabs him. He spits out curses as he struggles, trying to get out of his grip but the country has no intention of letting him go. He grins, wild hair falling into his face, and says something in his language that he doesn't understand. He finds the only part of skin that's uncovered on him and bites hard on his hand. The grin drops off the other nation's face immediately and he smashes his head against the tree, knocking him unconscious. 

When he comes back too, his head aches and he feels dizzy. He is tied up, hands behind his back and he's lying on his side. It is dark and he can smell the smoke of a fire. He hears talking in an unfamiliar language, and as his eyes focus in the darkness he sees two people sitting by the fire. 

One of the people is familiar, it's the boy who found him earlier, and the other is a stranger, also a country. He notices the strange shadows lurking behind the stranger; the creatures which he has brought with him to this country are not ones he knows. One of them notices him and drifts over. The other boy doesn't notice and continues talking but the stranger watches with impassive eyes as the spirit reaches him. This spirit is frightening, more like the fair folk than the unicorns and he tries to move away. He feels the ghostly hands on him and he wants to scream but his voice is stuck in his throat. 

"Your kingdom will fall. This is your end." The hands on his face are cold and he shakes, he doesn't even know what kingdom he is, but this spirit fills him with dread. His voice finally comes out and he screams. The boy drops his sword, cleaning forgotten as the stranger gets up and slowly walks over. He bats the spirit away and it retreats, respecting his authority. He crouches down and looks into his eyes. Violet meets green, he's looking for something. 

"What was that?" He asks even though he knows the other country won't understand. He doesn't reply but his words draw a small smile out of the watcher. He gets up and points to himself. 

"Norge." He points to the other country who's watching their exchange with interest. "Danmark." He looks at him expectantly, waiting for his name but he no longer knows what kingdom he is. Since Rome left he has been thrown between them constantly, each kingdom claiming him as theirs. Sussex, Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria, Kent...

"East Angles." He finally says, since it’s the kingdom he’s currently in. Denmark's eyes light up at this and he shouts to Norway, who turns to glare at him. He then leans down and unties him. He staggers onto his feet. Norway gestures for him to follow, and he does. Denmark puts his sword back into its scabbard and gets up as he comes over, and pushes his head down onto the ground with his foot. He's so small that it barely takes any pressure at all to knock him down. He understands what the gesture means and he only takes Denmark's hand as he pulls him back up instead of resisting this forced submission because the words of the spirit are still ringing in his ears. 

He doesn't want his kingdom to fall, no matter which one he is. Because he wants to one day be the one who's victorious instead of the loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *East Angles is the original name of the Kingdom of East Anglia. It was named after the Angles, the Germanic tribe who founded it in the 5th century. In 869 it was still independent after successfully rebelling against Mercia which had conquered it in 794. It also retained its relative independence by aligning with Wessex.  
> *The amulet is an Ammonite fossil. Amulets were used in Anglo-Saxon polytheism, and based on burial evidence it's been suggested that it was mainly women who used them.


	2. 1349

2\. 1349

He closes the rattling shutter in the master bedroom, the banging echoed throughout the empty house like an angry ghost. It is too hot in the city to keep them shut but he must do his part to stop the pestilence inside this house from spreading. The cross painted on the door is sure to keep others away. 

England is the only one left. When the royal court fled to the countryside he remained behind in the capital to continue his work, staying in a lodging house near the palace. At first it seemed like the house had escaped the pestilence, then within a week all of the others had become ill and died. The mistress of the house died this morning, England by her side, unable to get a priest who wasn't afraid to come into a house so touched by death. He had to give her the Viaticum, hopes it’s enough to save her soul. There will be no funeral mass, the church bells are silent, her body buried in un-sacred ground, a grave he dug for her in the yard. A sad death. He tried his best, tried to do what he could for all of them, at least she will not lie uncollected in the street. 

He is not afraid of the pestilence, but he is afraid of what it is doing to his country. He has heard snatches of what is happening in other countries, where order has collapsed and all has gone to seed. It is not much better here. The streets are deserted, the dead lie unburied and there are rumours that the wolves will not touch the bodies that have been left behind. 

This must be the beginning of the end, England thinks to himself as he gathers up the few goods he has and prepares to leave this dark empty place. He has seen the other three horsemen stalk through the land and this pestilence must be the arrival of the fourth on his pale horse. Even God's servants have given up hope, he thinks angrily of the people who have died without receiving their rites. 

Outside it is bright, and the city smells awful. The incense he carries cannot hide it, no incense could. He will go into the countryside, where the air is less poisonous and there is food rotting in the fields without anyone to harvest it. He walks through the empty streets, heading east, until he sees a small boy with a horse. 

The boy is small and his eyes are too wide with hunger. Even though it is a hot day, he is shaking. The horse he is guiding, however, is a magnificent creature. Its hair is red, almost like fire, it is young and it looks far better fed than the boy holding its reins. Even the leather of its saddle and reins are fit for a king, the brass catches on the sunshine. In the old days such a horse would have gone for many pounds, today he approaches the boy and asks him how much. 

"Three shillings." He replies. England is even surer that this horse is not the boy's to sell, but he thinks of how much faster it'd be to ride than to walk, how fine an animal it is that he gives the boy the money and leads the horse away. 

"I wonder who he stole you from." He asks the horse as he leads it away, and he is surprised by how docile it is. When he thinks about it, the horse looks like the one he saw War riding in one of the King's manuscripts. "Did he steal you from War, I wonder?" The horse snorts and England pats its side, adjusting the saddle on its back before he climbs onto it. 

The horse finally tires when they are deep into the countryside. They stop at an abandoned farmhouse next to an orchard. The horse eats the windfall apples, uncollected on the ground as England looks around the house. It has been abandoned for a long time, and England takes the crucifix he discovers inside as a sign that this is where he should wait until Judgement Day arrives.

He will wait here with War's horse for the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If you're interested in this period and haven't read it already, do yourself a favour and read "A Distant Mirror" by Barbara Tuchman.


	3. 1678

3\. 1678

"They say that by the time the millennium comes, He will establish a new kingdom on Earth for the righteous.” 

"Hmm." England isn't listening that closely to America. He steps back and squints at the sails being folded away. The back sails are down, it should be enough to ride out the impending storm. As long as he keeps the angle against the wind, and he's the only one who can ride it out. It's far too dangerous for a regular human, England has to do it, but it's hardly a comforting thought. The dark clouds are starting to bear down on them, and the wind is picking up. They don't have much time until the storm hits them. 

"Captain, are you ready?" The First-Mate appears on the deck next to them. America looks annoyed to be interrupted mid-flow but he knows better than to complain in front of the rest of the crew. England pauses to assess the situation before he replies.

"Ready. Get the rest of the crew under the deck. Tie me down and then join them." The First-Mate nods, but then hisses between his teeth.

"Jesus. Another fucking storm." England's feelings are much the same, even as America frowns at the blasphemy. They've had nothing but bad weather since they left Boston, the only break from the weather was their stop in Port Royal. Even that was a shorter stop than normal—the last thing he wanted was America wandering off and getting into serious trouble. The First-Mate leaves to get the rope, though not before looking America over again, and England glares at him, telling him not to question his judgement.

He knows what the crew are thinking about America, those who sail the seas are superstitious and none of them have ever encountered weather like this in all of their experience. One of the crew told him outright when they anchored in Port Royal that ‘they should leave the God-Botherer behind' and despite the verbal lashing he gave to him he understands why. 

It's America's first voyage and so far it's been awful. When the King asked if England could bring the colony back with him so he could meet him on his next voyage, he was ecstatic. He hates how much of his colony's growth he's already missed, and the fact he won't have to face his tears next time he leaves because he'll be coming with him this time is a blessing. America's tears are his weakness. 

In the time he's been away, however, America has grown and now reaches just above his waist. He has also been pulled into the orbit of the puritans of the city while he's been away. England curses himself for leaving the boy alone in Boston and dreads his reaction to the King's court and his views on religion. 

"England," he doesn't like the questioning tone in the boy's voice but he smiles as he looks at him anyway. "What do you believe in?" He pushes down on America's nose with his finger and the colony whines that he's not taking him seriously.

"Never you mind, lad. There's a storm coming."

"Another one? You never said there'd be this many storms. Why?"

"I can do many things, America, but I can't predict the weather." He ruffles his blonde hair and America pouts. "Come on, get down with the others before you get blown off-deck." He expects America to obey his command, maybe with that pout staying on his face but America doesn't. He tilts his head, defiant, and England raises an eyebrow. Questioning, but it'll be more than questioning if he's defied for much longer. 

"I'm not going under. I'm staying here with you." 

"Absolutely not. Get below deck before I drag you down there." America shakes his head, eyes wide and fierce, brimming with determination. He might still only reach his waist but his fearlessness is much deeper, and not childish. 

"No! This weather, it's God's judgement on us! I won't hide from it. England, I'm like you, I won't die. Let me stay, let me prove to Him I'm worthy of his love with this trial!" England grits his teeth and picks America up. Or, tries to pick America up. He drags his heels in and suddenly, he's doubled in weight, tripled, it's like trying to pick up a rock of sheer slate. Impossible to move him. 

The First-Mate interrupts them, holding two ropes. 

"Ready, Captain. The bloody winds are too." 

"You shouldn't--"

"Enough, America! Get below deck." 

"Tie me too. I'm staying here." The First-Mate looks at England, and then throws the rope around America and starts to tie him down.

"You bastard, take that off--"

"We don't want him below deck, Captain. He's cursed. Let the sea take him, if it wants him. The sea always gets what it wants." 

"Not cursed. Chosen." The First-Mate shakes his head but says nothing as he ties America to the deck, then ties England down too by the helm. 

"God be with you, Captain." He doesn't offer any blessing to America, a slight that the sting of is obvious on his face. Of course they're going to slight him, puritans have caused enough trouble in England, he'll find no love there. Despite that he feels sympathetic and touches America's hair lightly, to reassure him as the wind starts to bear down on them.

"America. You chose to stay up here, so you must follow my orders. You might not die from it, but you don't want to drown in a storm."

"God will protect me." England shakes his head too, and glances up at the clouds as the ship starts to rock more violently. This looks even worse than the other storms, a feat that shouldn't be possible with how violent they were. He's never seen weather like this before in all his time sailing, it sets dread coursing through his blood. Perhaps the Puritans are right, this is the first sign of a corrupt world about to be cleansed by the wrath of God. On instinct he crosses himself, a move that makes America start and then look at England with wild eyes, like he's about to sprout horns. 

"You're a papist?"

"On the seas? I'm nothing lad, just loyal to whatever force will spare me. Just you wait and see how you feel after this storm, if God doesn't smite us sinners first." England grins at America, wild, feral, a side of him he's not shown to his colony before. So far America has seen only the respectable big brother, but this side is what will let them survive, if God wills it. Surprise flashes on America's face, then he meets it with his own determination as he grabs onto the helm too. The wind crashes into them and throws them back onto the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Charles II converted to Catholicism on his deathbed and pushed for tolerance of Catholics and non-conformists during his reign, though his efforts were unsuccessful.


	4. 1816

4\. 1816

"I cannot believe it, sir, Fifth of July and having to build you a fire like it's January! Never in all my days have I seen such a thing." The charwoman is as enthusiastic as always, relishing the chance to discuss the appalling weather while starting his fire as England kicks his foot warmer and hopes it warms it up again. It doesn't. England has seen such a thing before, but he prayed he wouldn't have to see it again. 

"Yes, rather makes you think of those summers of the past. Four horsemen stalking the land..." England trails off as he sees the confused, then suspicious look of the charwoman. He's not sure exactly what the landlady of this lodging house has told her, but she's both highly respectful and incredibly suspicious of him. Most likely he's a 'strange gentleman' from London, up to do the views of the Lakes with all the other tourists. Clearly he's starting to prove a little too strange for her tastes. 

It's terrible luck for him, he couldn’t have picked a worse time to come back to Cumbria. Even for Cumbria, the weather is terrible. The rain hasn't stopped for the past week, the road from London was even worse than usual. He's not one for throwing up in stagecoaches at his age, but it was a close run. It feels like January, and the sky is streaked with the most vivid reds and oranges at twilight he’s seen in centuries. Beating France once and for all was supposed to be the end of his problems. Why now the weather, the famines, the riots? It's ominous.

"Are you having your tea in, sir?" England glances to the window and his heart sinks at the heavy rain. It hasn't lessened since he woke up this morning, hoping for a pause in the weather to go admire the views he came all this way for. A thing that he would have called madness a century ago, but these days feels rather...romantic. The sun breaking through the clouds for a moment to illuminate a fell after a sudden rain storm. The babbling of brooks, the call of a startled blackbird darting over the path. He can probably admire the stormy, wet, muddy view out there right now, but after spending so long on battlefields, praying for dry weather so to not sink in mud, he struggles to find it romantic in reality compared to in a book of poetry when it's this bad. Maybe it'll finally stop soon so he can go admire it in a nice, pleasant, dry manner. 

"Yes. Could you bring some more hot water? The bloody foot warmer's gone cold already." The charwoman clicks her tongue furiously at his blasphemy and tells him hotly not to take the Lord's name in vain, but goes to get him the hot water anyway. England picks up his copy of Guide to the Lakes from the desk, and picks through the pages before putting it back down again. This was supposed to be a break from the demands of court - if he had to hear one more ridiculous story from the Prince Regent that ended with "and then I bribed the servants" he was going to snap and choke him with his own cravat - after finally defeating Napoleon. 

But there's no summer this year, no country is being spared from the famines and the cold. It's hardly a time for recuperation. It's that time of year too, his least favourite. He is not as sick as he has been before, nowhere near the collapse he had the first year. He’s still unwell, although it's harder to split out from the current, deep dissatisfaction in the country. He wanted to be as far from London and any reminders of America as possible. He foolishly takes the newspapers here despite that, but he excuses it with the fact the news is days late. It is enough to keep informed, but it will too late for him to return for any crisis. He tries to skim the news of America, but sees he has half a foot of snow fall in June anyway. This is the strangest of times. 

The charwoman comes back in with the kettle, breaking him out of his thoughts of America, a relief as he hands her the ceramic bottle from under his feet. 

"I think it's God's Judgement on the World, sir. It's terrible, what people have been doing. He's freezing all us sinners for not repenting. The whole world will be ice and only the righteous will be warm. Here." She hands him back the foot warmer and he puts it back by his feet, sighing as the warmth runs back into them. 

"Perhaps. It is not that long since the Thames last froze." A frost fair on it too, an event he almost thought he would never see again. The charwoman has a more immediate thought than his reminiscences on the past. 

"Oh, the elephant! Did you see the elephant?" 

"I did."

"Do they really look like the devil?"

"Uh, no. More like...elephants." He has seen so many elephants now that it is hard to convey the impression of an elephant to someone who hasn't seen one. The essential essence of elephants is hard to pin down in words. "Very big ears. And tusks." He suddenly recalls riding one in India, then falling off said elephant, but despite the mishap (he chooses to accept India's explanation it was an accident) he thinks fondly of it. 

"I see." The charwoman says, but in a tone that says she clearly does not, before she gives him a small bow and leaves the room. Her words regarding God's Judgement stick in his mind, even if they are words he's heard many times before by now without any sort of final judgement appearing. What if this finally is the right time? War, pestilence, famine, death are stalking the land again, the weather has turned for the worst, and red snow falls in Italy. Blood snow, a mad king and a corrupt, immoral Prince Regent. England sighs, the thought heavy on his mind as he looks out at the rain and wraps his blanket tighter around him. 

His scientists look for rational reasons why this is happening. They want to explore the Arctic to see if it is responsible for the freeze, and for the Northwest passage too. England likes to think of himself as rational too, everything has its reasons, but it's hard to leave centuries of superstition behind. Perhaps God is no more rational now than he was in the past, his vision and judgement on a scale humans still cannot understand and never will. It has been so long, could this actually be it? 

What sort of final judgement is he due? When they are all judged, where will he be sorted? With the righteous or with the damned? He shuts his eyes, lets out a sigh. The damned, probably. The thought calls back a memory of America, tiny and in Boston, looking up at him and telling him with excitement of all the horrible things that happen to sinners in Hell. Oh, that small, ridiculous, golden hair puritan. He misses him. That child is long gone, the adult probably stuck on the side of the damned too now. Serves him right. England always did know better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Lake District in Cumbria, popularised by guides such as native son William Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes (1810) and the romantic poets, was the number one place for tourists in the late 18th/early 19th centuries. This was helped by the fact that the Napoleonic Wars made previously popular destinations on the continent much less accessible.  
> *An elephant went on the ice below Blackfriars Bridge during the frost fair of 1814. This was also the final frost fair on the Thames. With the end of the mini ice-age, the embankment of the river and the rebuilding of London Bridge, it's unlikely it will ever freeze enough again for another.  
> *Red snow fell in Italy in 1816, due to the pollutants in the atmosphere from the Mount Tambora Eruption of 1815.


	5. 1962

5\. 1962

It is a beautiful, crisp day. The skies are clear, remarkably so for October. Leaves skitter across the pavement, lifted up by the twirling, playful wind. A child and a dog chase them along, the child laughs as if she is not one minute from midnight. The child’s nanny calls after her, cajoling her in flowing French as bicycles spin past and the wind disturbs the front pages of newspapers in the green kiosquier. Their headlines scream of Cuba, all other news and scandals forgotten. EEC membership, the reason why he's here, seems very far away when they're so close to complete annihilation. 

England pauses, watches the only cloud in the sky, a small wispy thing, pushed by the high winds above them. France pauses too, looks up at the sky to assess what England is looking at before letting out a sigh.

"Please, no sonnets."

"Don't be so bloody cheeky. It’s a fine day."

"Average." England sighs, annoyed at the impossibility of talking about the weather with France.

"Consider it like this, you idiot. This is possibly the last autumn we'll ever see. Is that not a thing that makes it beautiful?" France tilts his head and his eyes follow the cloud too, before laughing.

"Oh, Angleterre! Come now, surely you are too old to believe that! How many times has the world failed to end now?" France, the rationalist old bastard, isn't taking him seriously as they start walking again. France is wrong as well, despite seeing America at his most determined too. Wherever facing a storm sent by God to kill him, or a gun pointing directly at his face, or deciding there was only one way left to end the war, America has a will of steel and a certainty in his own moral convictions. He always has. England isn't convinced that Russia would definitely and willingly fire first, despite Russia's bravado and his boss's insistence that he would. Russia has seen enough destruction in his life, been attacked enough, it probably would only be in self-defence. Lashing out like a hurt child. Dangerous too, but in a different way. 

But America...America could press the button first. America might press the button first this very day. It would not be an easy decision for him to make, not something he wants to do, but he would make it. If it was needed, if it was necessary. England feels sick at the thought, but it is true. He still can't believe America has the power to do it. To destroy the whole world so simply, with a nothing more than a code and a button.

"Do you ever feel like you got it wrong? With raising them."

"Mmm...no. You definitely did, though." England groans in disgust. Of course he'd say that, stupid question. "Angleterre, he won't push the button. If you stress, you will go bald and then nothing will distract from your eyebrows."

"Oi, there’s nothing wrong with my eyebrows, bastard."

"Are you sure? Are you blind as well as incurably stupid?"

"I'm not stupid, you're stupid. Anyway he’ll press the button if he feels like he has to." The thought of someone who he cares about so deeply, despite how much pain he's caused him, destroying the world makes him feel like he did something terribly, horribly wrong along the way. "How did he end up like this? Able to cause so much destruction?"

"You have nuclear weapons too, you realise."

"It's not the same! They're a deterrent." He doesn't need to point out France has them too, he's always been shameless about them. He'll score nil points on it. France doesn't look convinced and shakes his head, before patting England on the head patronisingly, with a hand he knocks off with a growl. 

"Amérique doesn't want to destroy the world and nor does Russie. They live here too. Stop worrying." France looks worried though, for all his bravado about them never doing it. England looks at him closely, at this nation who he's been tied to for so long, who he's hated more and for longer than any other, and feels a tug of sympathy. Despite the way he's still blocking his membership to the EEC, the bastard. Their time as great powers is gone now, never to come back. Great powers never do. Their fate, and everyone else's fate, rests in the hands of two other nations. Two nations that they have both patronised in their own ways in the past. He loves America, can nearly admit it to himself without caveats in his head now, but in this present moment, he's a little scared of him too. 

"Well, it's not like I'm worried about you, or anything, but if you want to go to a cafe tonight..." France perks up and claps his hands together.

"Perfect! I know just the place, even if I will have to get them to make an exemption to let someone as unfashionable as you in. But you must promise me one thing."

"I'm perfectly fashionable, git. What?" 

"Angleterre, if you get drunk and cry about Amérique, I will leave."

"I would never!"

"Promise me!" England makes a disgusted noise at the hand France offers him to shake on it. He stares for a moment, then gives France a look to assess if he’s kidding him. No, France is dead serious and raises an eyebrow in response.

"Oh, fine. Not that I’d do that anyway." England shakes on it and follows France into the ministry building for their next meeting. If America does decide to blow up the world tonight, there's worse places he can be in for the end of the world than a Parisian cafe. At least the food and wine will be halfway decent, even if he would rather die than admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This meeting didn’t succeed, by the way. De Gaulle was adamant that the UK should not be admitted to the EEC and vetoed its application in 1963. Please make your own joke about Brexit here.


	6. 2019

1\. 2019

"Okay, right, I'll check that." England sighs softly, wedges his phone between his shoulder and ear as he reaches for the jug of milk. His other hand is holding his government phone, which is buzzing non-stop. God, a hundred emails in ten minutes. Did someone do something incredibly moronic again? Stupid question, everything is incredibly moronic right now. 

He picks the milk up and pours it as Germany continues to talk about ratification or extensions or something, he lost track when he had to pause to pay for his posh cheese and pickle baguette and tea. Oh, what would he do without Pret? The barista was the first person to smile at him all day. 

"I think that's a - oh, bollocks!" His government phone buzzes, another phone call, this time from his boss and his hand drops it in a panic, right into the tea he's just poured his milk into. Oh. Not today, he can't handle today without tea, he has to put up with so much already. "No, not at what you were saying, you idiot, I just dropped my work phone in my tea - look, can I call you back?" England hangs up before Germany can respond, knowing there’s no way on earth he’s willingly calling Germany back. He stares at his now-ruined tea and wonders if this is what he's survived two thousand years for. It feels futile. His boss is now ruining his tea too, is nothing sacred anymore?

There's a light tap on his shoulder, and a new paper cup is placed onto the stand next to his ruined cup. There's even a Love Bar on top of the plastic lid. He glances over his shoulder and the barista smiles at him, a little awkwardly.

"If you put it in a bag of rice, it might be okay." It takes him a moment to place her accent, because he suddenly feels teary at someone being nice to him, but she's one of Lithuania's people. His teariness must show on his face, because she looks a little alarmed by his expression. "Well, think like this. It can always be much, much worse." Oh yes, that sounds like something Lithuania would come out, he'd be very proud of her. She's right though, compared to famine, plague, invasions and wars, it could be a lot worse. 

"Thank you. Just...thank you." She nods and goes back behind the bar, looking slightly embarrassed by his gratitude. England manages to fish his phone out and not destroy his second drink. After embarrassing himself like that, he can't stay there so he leaves, and his non-destroyed phone rings just as he steps out onto the street. "America?" He frowns but picks up anyway, feeling a little softer than usual after receiving that kindness from a stranger. 

"Hey, England! How's it going? I need to ask you a favor!" 

"Oi, idiot, wait until people respond to your first question before asking them for a favour." 

"So, it's nothing big but it's reaaaally important--"

"I swear to God, if this involves any of your chicken, I will strangle you. I am so sick of hearing about your fucking bizarre chicken." 

"Chicken? Anyway, I need to stay with you."

"Absolutely not, I can't handle a state visit right now." America laughs like he's being stupid and England rolls his eyes, his feet taking him down to Cockpit Stairs - he's half tempted to tell America all about the ghostly headless lady who haunts it to get him to hang up - and onwards to St James's Park without any further input needed from his brain. 

"Not like that! Personal visit. C'mon, England, I let you stay at my place all the time. You gotta return the favor!" There's a whine in his voice and England's instinct is to say "no", because having America visit is a nightmare. A bouncy, over enthusiastic nightmare who wants to go to the most rubbish attractions and be entertained by him non-stop. The thought alone makes him want a lie-down in a darkened room. But America usually never asks, he just shows up and expects England to throw his schedule out for him. To be asked is unusual, and maybe even a little concerning. Is America okay? He knows America is under as much stress as him right now, and the fact he might want a break from that by visiting him feels flattering. It’s enough to throw his good judgement out the window for now.

"Ugh. Fine, I guess I can put you up for a few days. For God's sake, don't upset them at Customs again. Why were you even trying to bring cheese in the country? We have cheese. It even tastes of something, which I’m sure would be a novel experience for you." 

"Where am I going to get sixty four slices of American cheese in London?" England shudders in disgust at the thought as he walks into St James's Park. Crows hop among the daffodils, some trees bloom with blossom while other stay bare, a moorhen examines a fallen flower on the ground under a magnolia bush. He weavers through the groups of tourists, the important business people busy doing important business on their phones, two civil servants discussing sanctions which they definitely shouldn't be discussing in public - good old Foreign Office, as incapable of not accidentally leaking information as ever - as America describes all the things he wants to do when he visits. He picks a bench overlooking the lake and the fountain that America's people paid for, which reminds him of America every time he sees it, damn it, as he argues the merits of staying in England for his whole trip over visiting Scotland as well. They're so numerous he shouldn't even have to be arguing the point, but he is. 

"Holyrood - no, it's not spelt rude, it's like rod with an extra 'o'." 

"Why are you guys incapable of spelling anything properly? Is it an old people thing?"

"What do you mean, you bastard, I'm not old-" Suddenly there's a crack echoing across the sky, and England's head snaps up on instinct. His first thought, despite it being over sixty years since one launched, is a Doodlebug overhead. He expects to hear the engine cutting out and to dive for cover. But it's not. It is something much, much bigger and his mouth falls open. "Oh, good god. Shit." 

"England?" America sounds concerned by the awe in his voice, but he can't help it. It's impressive, the trail of light streaking through the sky, rocketing west at a break-taking speed. It looks huge, makes the ones that pummel Russia and Canada look tiny. It's impossible to estimate how big it is at the speed it's flying at, but it's like the one that wiped out the dinosaurs, a vague memory of a one in a hundred million year chance comes back to his mind. It is so huge that there’s no chance of survival, no matter if it hits America or lands in the Atlantic first. 

"Ah, this is it. Shit. Hah. Oh America, we're all going to die. Look out the window, look on the news. This is actually it this time!" England stands up, knocks his tea off the bench as he does but he doesn't notice. Everyone else is staring too, up at the sky and the streak of light overhead. The roar of the sound wave that follows it, a few seconds later, shatters every single window, blasts signs and anything loose off buildings as the ground shakes and the ducks and pelicans on the lake take off. 

"No way - England, you can't be serious!"

"Sorry, America. Dead serious. I love you." It slides out so easily, when the world is finally ending. Stupid to take so long to say it. He should have said it years, decades, centuries ago. The tears on his face aren't his, they belong to his people as they watch the asteroid streak through the sky, on route to that continent they call North America. To America. Oh, God. He can't protect him from this, or anyone else from it either. How sad, how futile. Maybe his own tears are mixed in there too, after all.

"...I love you too." He shuts his eyes, tilts his head up at the sky and ignores the deafening wail of all the security and car alarms in London going off at the same time.

"Thank you. Goodbye, love." The line cuts off, goes dead, and the only surprise is that it lasted that long. So many people, so many calls. England drops his phone, kicks his shoes off and walks onto the grass, flopping back onto it to watch the sky. The noise, the sirens, the alarms, the desperate phone calls, the panic. He thought the apocalypse would be silent, like the plague was. It's the noisiest thing he's ever heard. 

The noise of the asteroid hitting America, hitting New York dead on, is the loudest sound ever heard in the history of England, in human history in its entirety, and the end of history too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Pret: short for Pret a Manger. Ubiquitous sandwich shop chain in Central London. Please see this tweet for an example of just how ubiquitous it is: https://twitter.com/BryceElder/status/1090906456013135872.  
> *"Fucking bizarre chicken": chlorinated chicken. Let’s not discuss this any further.  
> *Apparently the headless ghost woman of Cockpit Stairs was first seen by a pair of Coldstream Guards in 1804. She later caused a car accident on the road next to the steps in 1972 when the driver swerved to avoid her and hit a lamppost.  
> *Doodlebug: V-1 flying bomb. Notorious amongst Londoners of a certain age, the engine cutting out was a sign it was about to explode.  
> *Pelicans have lived in St James’s Park since 1664, when they were given as a gift from the Russian Ambassador.


End file.
